


untitled

by Val Mora (valmora)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Morning Sex, unintentional grinding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:21:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valmora/pseuds/Val%20Mora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Unintentional grinding is a great way to say good morning." (from the description at <a href="http://aphkink-aid.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://aphkink-aid.livejournal.com/"></a><b>aphkink_aid</b>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [here](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/9482.html?thread=11501834#t11501834) at the kink meme for [this prompt](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/6850.html?thread=11044802#t11044802) and archived [here](http://community.livejournal.com/hetalia_kindex/795053.html) at the kindex.

The sheets are warm, soft against Finland’s bare skin, tucked just under his chin, and he can feel the cold bright sunlight that falls through the window, leaving tracks of warmth on his legs and shoulders even through the sheets. The room smells of baked goods, muffins or pancakes maybe. Sweden must have woken up early to cook breakfast. Finland stretches a little in drowsy anticipation. He doesn’t need to get up – Sweden will come fetch him when he’s done cooking, and then they can go wake Sealand.

There was a time that Sweden would have cooked breakfast and brought it to the bedroom, and known to put it close to the fire so that it would still be warm when they finished making love.

Finland misses those mornings. They would finish breakfast at noon and get to work very late, Finland still feeling flush with arousal, skin tight and blood warm with the remembered sensation of Sweden looming above him, filling him, taking him in, shifting until all was deeper-tighter-sweeter between them.

Finland shifts, sliding pressure of the sheets against him not enough. He wants Sweden, his gaze, his shoulders, his hunger.

He doesn’t know what time it is. Judging by the sunlight that makes the darkness behind his eyelids shine purple-black-yellow, it’s at least ten o’clock. Almost time to wake, and Sealand will be wandering around the house soon. No time to pull on a bathrobe and ghost to the kitchen for a quickie against the kitchen counter. Nor does Finland want to try to entice Sweden back upstairs; he doesn’t want the food to get cold, and he certainly doesn’t want Sealand wandering around the house, wondering where they are, and stumbling in on them.

But he can imagine. Sweden would come into the room, carrying breakfast on a tray which he would set on their nightstand. And he would look down at Finland, unreadable, intimidating until Finland reached to take his hand, pull him down into bed, Sweden’s clothed body pressed to Finland’s naked one. The pressure of Sweden’s hip drawing him further, higher, the texture of his trousers rough and dragging, making Finland cry out as he came. Sweden would fumble his trousers open, the two of them wrestling with his belt buckle, and thrust against Finland’s belly or between his tight closed thighs until he came.

Finland rocks into a crumpled heap of blankets, gasping, desperate, and feels the mattress shift as something presses back into him, a moan dragging from the other side of the bed as Sweden press closer, closer, reaching behind himself to pull Finland’s hips forward until Finland nudges at the part of his legs, dragging up and in towards the sweetsmall pucker between, pressure and heat.

Sweden’s shoulders hunch, body tensing as he shivers; Finland feels Sweden’s climax in the sudden snap and relax of his muscles. He rocks minutely into Sweden’s body, pushes him forward onto his belly on the bed, straddles his thighs and lets his own weight pull him down into the heated closeness of Sweden’s body, catching on the roughness of Sweden’s skin, the swell of muscles, and the sheer sudden pleasure of it crashes over him.

Both their bodies are sticky with sweat, the sheets thrown aside from when Sweden dragged them together. Finland presses a kiss to Sweden’s shoulder blade, then remembers –

“If you’re not in the kitchen,” he says, “who’s cooking?”

Sweden curses, emphatically, and yanks the covers back up just as footsteps start on the stairs, Sealand bringing his fathers breakfast in bed.  



End file.
